Chapter Text
The Rosehearts' house had a chill.
It didn't matter what time of year, didn't matter what time of day, there was always a lingering chill in the home. It was disguised well enough whenever guests or patients came to visit, but Riddle could always feel it. A lingering frost on the back of his neck, just enough to raise goosebumps when he got caught off guard.
A complaint would get him nowhere. That was one of the first rules he had been taught: Your life is planned out for you. Complaints will not be tolerated.
Riddle sat at his vanity, brushing his hair with a precision that would have impressed a military drill sergeant. Forty passes of his silver bristle brush on each side of his head, no more, no less. It shouldn't take any more than that, obviously, since he never did anything to tangle or knot his perfect red hair.
The house was quiet. Like it was frozen in time. Nothing ever happened.
Well, that was a lie. Thank goodness Riddle hadn't said it aloud, or he would be breaking another of Mother's rules
Things did happen in the Rosehearts' house, but it was almost always because of Riddle's failures.
Forgetting to study one afternoon because he got immersed in a textbook? He would get tested on the textbook's materials so thoroughly that it made him shudder at even the sight. For if he got even a single a question wrong, the snap of his mother's belt would crack across his shins or knuckles.
Eating anything beyond what Mother's nutritionally appropriate diet allotted for him? The privilege of food would be revoked until Riddle learned his lesson. Mother's diets were perfectly nutritionally balanced, to be exactly what Riddle's body needed—so why would Riddle want for anything more?
Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty. Riddle set his brush aside and stood up. What's next...?
A small spark of shame jolted his heart. How could he not remember his routine better? He was fourteen years old, not a child. Mother would have been so disappointed in him to know, but Riddle wouldn't have ever told her. Mother would be disappointed in that too. She didn't raise a liar.
His tiny footsteps echoed through the room as he walked to his bed. Riddle knew he was small for his age, being made to study medical textbooks upon medical textbooks let him know that. But the whispers of his mother's friends affirmed it. They thought Riddle couldn't hear them when they gossiped, or that he didn't care. But he did.
"Riddle is awfully little..."
"...Doctor Rosehearts is quite strict, no...?"
"...poor boy. Always so dreary looking..."
Riddle didn't appreciate these comments. Mother wasn't strict. She was just trying to be helpful. She just wanted what was best for him.
Riddle was about to get into his bed, the blankets his only comfort in the world, when he felt something. Or... was it heard something?
It was somewhere in between feeling and hearing, like a low vibration. Riddle's brows furrowed and, against his better judgement, he went to his window to look outside. Maybe there's an incoming storm...? He wondered, pushing the heavy red drapes open just enough to look upon the moonlit courtyard outside.
Trotting down the cobblestone street was a small carriage, pulled by a single horse. Riddle couldn't help but feel uneasy—the vibrating sensation got worse the closer the carriage came. It was obvious they were headed toward the Rosehearts' home and clinic—the street was a dead-end and the other businesses weren't open at night. Mother's was.
I should go to sleep, Riddle thought, even though he was frozen by the window. He couldn't pull his eyes from the carriage. The lanterns swinging from the carriage were unlit, unusual for nighttime visitors on the rare occasion that Mother got them. I need to go to sleep. I'm already a minute past bedtime.
But he couldn't pull himself from the window. Riddle hoped that the sliver of light from his lamp peaking through the curtain with him wouldn't catch anyone's attention.
The carriage pulled right up to the front steps of their two-story townhouse. There, in the moonlight, was Mother. She must have been awaiting the carriage quite impatiently if she was willing to stand outside to greet the guest.
Mother was beautiful, as always. A tight bun of scarlet hair and eyes of grey steel that matched Riddle's own. Mother dressed nicely, but never ostentatiously. Another rule of hers: Wealth was to be shown, but not flaunted. It was why Riddle had no toys nor books of his choice nor anything of that sort. That would be arrogant of him.
The carriage door opened and a team of four people got out, carrying a large, flat, clothed-covered package. Riddle flinched away from the window as the vibrating in his skull began screeching. It sounded like nails on chalkboard mixed with the whining static from Mother's radio in the parlor. And deep within the static, was sobbing. Vicious crying that filled Riddle with a discomfort and fear he hadn't felt before.
Riddle didn't like it. Whatever had arrived must have been deeply rooted in dark magic. Riddle knew that Mother had a penchant for magical objects of all sort, from blessed to cursed, but this surely had to be the worst.
Despite himself, Riddle returned to the window, hoping to catch a better glimpse of what the object could be. But the carriage was empty and Mother, along with the men, had gone inside. That barely helped the noise in Riddle's head, only barely muffling it, like it was behind a thin wall.
He could still hear the crying, and he hated how it sounded like his own. The quiet nights when Mother's lessons were too harsh and he desperately wished his father was still around to comfort him. Father had left after his birth, and according to Mother, it was all Riddle's fault.
Now all Riddle could do was study, obey, and hope one day that he would be a good enough son that Father would come back. Maybe then Mother would be happy again.
Riddle pulled away from the window and headed back to his bed, doing his best to tune out the infernal noise in his head. He would tell Mother in the morning—surely, she could do something about it?
Curse that crying, Riddle groaned, getting under the covers and covering his ears. Stupid package. Just shut up.
Almost as if the magic object heard him, the crying quieted. But Riddle knew it wasn't because of him—it was because of a new sound joining the cacophony. A man's humming, soft and reassuring, some sort of tuneless melody that winded and carouseled in the air like kindness Riddle was unfamiliar with but wished he knew. A pain blossomed in his chest, pricking in his eyes and threatening to drown his self.
Words? Were there words? Riddle could hear something in the humming, perhaps it was singing? If there were words, Riddle couldn't understand them, but the sickening pain got worse all the same. He wanted to cry, to join that sobbing voice from before, so that he could be soothed by whatever creature was singing. Jealousy and grief, if he knew the feelings' names at all, overgrew in his body, taking it over and puppeteering it without his permission.
He slid out of bed again. Again. Riddle hated how disobedient he was being this evening, but his body wouldn't listen to him any more than he was listening to Mother right now.
Riddle's hand trembled as he twisted the doorknob and pulled it open very, very slowly. The wood door opened slowly and silently, and Riddle stepped into the hall. It was the first time he had left his room past curfew. Moonlight shone through the diamond-paned windows, lighting the short hallway enough for Riddle to creep along.
Riddle imagined that his heart rate would have been skyrocketing, were it not for the sweet longing the humming and singing had introduced to him. His bare feet sunk into the plush red runner as he slowly crept along.
Where would Mother have taken that package? Riddle wondered, though he both knew and dreaded the answer.
It was the office. Mother's office. There was no other place Mother put magical items, and that package was certainly magical.
There was that heart rate spike Riddle had been envisioning.
The office was banned, one of the only spaces in the house to be banned. This was a terrible idea. Such a terrible idea. So why wouldn't his legs stop carrying him straight toward the most trouble he would ever get in?
Into the office—a broken rule. And on top of that, eavesdropping and spying on Mother? Another broken rule. But that sweet voice was still humming and singing, the crying and awful static having fully cleared up by then. The heavy doors were cracked, firelight spilling into the hall.
Riddle froze. He surely couldn't enter while Mother was still in there. And Mother was still in there, he could hear her voice. He peeked through the crack in the door, trying to figure out where she and the mysterious new object were.
The room was cold. If there was a source to the chill in the house, it was here. A shimmering crystal chandelier hung from the wood panel ceiling, lit from within by some ethereal pink light. A large fire roared in the stone hearth of the room, illuminating the walls of bookshelves, the tables of trinkets, the display cases of taxidermied magical creatures. It was still. Cold. Unsettling. Much like Mother.
Mother stood in front of the fire, like she was watching it burn. The men who had brought the package had left, leaving only her to her thoughts and the new object. Riddle quietly had to readjust at the door to see where the package had ended up, hoping that Mother wouldn't hear the minute way his nightgown caught on the edge of the door.
"I know you're there," Mother's stern voice cut through the mysterious singing.
Riddle's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, a rancid shiver wracking his body. The wonderful, nostalgic singing had ceased, leaving only a terrible hollowness behind. Mother knew? Mother heard him? He was so screwed—
Mother turned around, but her eyes didn't go to the door. They went to the other side of the office, where a elliptical, full-length mirror sat, propped up on the bookshelves. The housing of the mirror was ornate, winding briars made of wrought iron with stained glass roses nestled among the branches.
"Show yourself, Jabberwock." Mother strode over to the mirror, unamused by her own reflection. "You are in there."
The mirror stubbornly remained only reflecting Mother.
Mother folded her arms over her chest. "Jabberwock. I know you can hear me. I am prepared to free you from that Looking Glass, if you cooperate properly."
"Don't care," the mirror replied succinctly, startling Riddle. "Many make that offer. Few even try to hold up their end, and none have been successful. Clearly."
Riddle did his best not to gasp. Mother had received a magic mirror.
Mother seemed displeased. "Well, what could I offer you then?"
"Nothing. I'm done with mortal squabbles." If the mirror could have shrugged with indifference, Riddle suspected it would have. "And, for your sake, I'll inform you that I'm not some wellspring of infinite information, like some of the previous people have thought. I sleep a lot. Whatever you wish to ask me, I probably don't have the answer."
"I think you do have an answer," Mother said, turning to one of her shelves. "My problem is simple, and caused by you."
"Simple and caused by me?" The mirror hummed. "Fine, consider me intrigued."
Mother pulled a book off of a shelf, flipping to a certain page and showing it to the mirror. "Can you see this, Jabberwock?"
"Hm...?"
Riddle could have sworn he saw something in Mother's reflection shift. It was strange, the phenomenon remind Riddle of when a previously unseen bird would shift around on a tree branch. Was there an eye in the glass now? Riddle was too far away, and at too awkward an angle to tell.
The mirror mumbled under its breath as it read."...Birth resulted in mangling... Removal of ovaries and... how is this caused by me?"
"Don't act foolish," Mother scoffed, shutting the book a bit too forcefully and setting it back on the shelf. "You are the most despised enemy of the Queen of Hearts. You cursed her entire bloodline. You are the reason I had that—that devil of a child!"
Riddle felt the words like a slap across the face. Devil child. He was Mother's only child.
"He ruined me!" Mother turned back to the mirror so viciously that her tidy bun loosed a few scarlet tresses. "I could never have another. My husband left me for that—and it is all your doing! So undo it! Remove your godforsaken curse and let me have a proper chance at life! At getting my husband back!"
The mirror hummed lowly, like the irritated buzzing of cicadas in the summer. "As... delighted as I would be to assist you," the mirror spat the word "delighted" with such displeasure that Riddle shuddered, "I cannot. I am trapped inside this mirror."
Mother's fists clenched. "The mighty King of Magic cannot escape some paltry mirror?"
"Does it look like I can get out?" The mirror's tone had become bored again. "If I could escape this mirror, then I wouldn't be sitting here, listening to your whining."
Mother snapped, snatching some random, heavy-looking object off of a table and hurling it at the mirror. It hit the glass with a thud and dropped to the floor, leaving no impact nor scratch on the glass. This wasn't good enough for Mother, who started glaring around for a better object.
It was about then that Riddle decided he should return to his room. He would already be in hot water, but if Mother found him now? Riddle shuddered to think of what punishment Mother would give him for breaking such a fundamental rule, and on purpose too. It would be nothing like the corrections for his many mistakes, no. It would be bad.
But, it was what he deserved, wasn't it? For ruining Mother.
Riddle refused to acknowledge that part of his fear of being found was not only the punishment, but the tears that were threatening to escape his eyes.
"Abysmal wretch—ugh!" Mother screeched bitterly, as Riddle pulled away from the door as quickly and quietly as he could. "You—You—Fine! Be that way!"
Riddle stifled a yelp as Mother's footsteps approached the office door, and he jerked backward to hide in the shadows of a small nook. Thankfully, he didn't bang into the table that stood there, and, even more thankfully, Mother didn't notice him as she stormed out of the office.
"We will continue this discussion in the morning, Jabberwock." Mother's tone was the same, imperious one she used when correcting Riddle's mistakes. She pulled the office doors shut behind her, and stormed off up the stairs, presumably going to her room for the night.
Riddle stayed frozen in the alcove for longer than probably necessary, fearing that Mother would return. After a few minutes in the hauntingly quiet hallway, Riddle emerged from the shadowy niche. I have to go back to my room.
But even as he thought that, his hand trailed over the office door.
The Jabberwock. Where had he heard that name before? It was familiar, of course, but...
Riddle pulled the handle down, opening the door quietly. He mentally thanked Mother's need for well-oiled hinges as the heavy mahogany panel silently pushed inward. Riddle could hear the mirror mumbling, speaking to itself presumably.
"Demanding mortals. What an atrocious way to speak about a child." The mirror's reflection shimmered in the same way heat waves did. Riddle could almost make out a figure. "How ridiculous. She's not even a descendant of the Queen."
Riddle slipped inside and shut the door quietly behind him. But the latch of the doorknob clicking back into place was a bit too loud, and the mirror hushed. Riddle bit his lip. So much for sneaking. Hopefully, The Jabberwock doesn't tell Mother tomorrow.
"Who's there?" the mirror called into the office.
Riddle hesitated for a long moment, before taking a deep breath and stepping in front of the mirror. Even now, when he was closer to the mirror, Riddle couldn't quite make out the figure. There was a hazy outline, but otherwise it was just a reflection of the office and of Riddle.
"Oh dear," The Jabberwock said, its voice softening. "You must be the child that woman spoke of. You look... unwell."
Riddle blinked, a bit surprised by the statement. "Un... well?" He laughed, almost scoffing in disbelief. "No, I can't be. Mother feeds me what is necessary."
"Hm." The Jabberwock didn't sound pleased. "Why are you in here child? Your mother doesn't seem the kind to allow nighttime wandering."
After everything Riddle had just heard, the original reason for sneaking out of bed seemed trivial. But he still replied, "I heard you singing. Or—well, I think it was you singing. And the crying, I heard that too."
"You heard...?"
A set of bright golden eyes, like glowing coins, settled into visibility. Their pupils were slit, like the cats Riddle had seen diagrams of in books. Riddle shuddered unintentionally upon being fixed with The Jabberwock's intense gaze, clenching his fists as the urge to hide welled up in his chest.
"I know you told Mother that you were stuck but... is there really not any way to get you out of the mirror?" Riddle asked, stepping a little closer, even as his heart protested in fear. "I don't want... she's disappointed with me. If you could help her..."
A softer voice chimed in, also coming from the mirror, but different from The Jabberwock's, which startled Riddle further. "Father, what is happening? Is that woman gone? Who is this?"
Riddle lurched back nervously. "Is there—Is there someone else in the mirror with you?"
"You can hear me?" the second mirror-voice asked, even softer than before. "That's new."
Riddle had millions more questions. Unfortunately for those questions, his attention was caught by something new forming in the mirror's reflection. More accurately, forming out of the mirror's reflection. A sword's hilt and cross-guard, ornate and seemingly made of roses that were turned to silver while they were in full bloom.
What is happening? Riddle questioned himself, as his hand instinctively reached out toward the hilt. Why am I doing this? I've already broken so many rules—Mother would be furious if she found out...
"Child," The Jabberwock's voice was strange, expectant and nervous in a way that Riddle wouldn't have thought possible, "what are you doing?"
"Why is this here?" Riddle asked, even as he gripped onto the hilt. "This shouldn't..."
"Ooh. You should pull that out," the second voice advised with a mildly amused tone.
"Philip, don't tell him to—child, let go of that."
Riddle didn't know what came over him.
No, that's wrong. He did know.
If he pulled this sword out, maybe that would release The Jabberwock (and whoever that second voice—Philip?—was.) And if Riddle freed this creature, then The Jabberwock would have to help Mother, wouldn't he? And then... then... maybe Mother would stop looking at him in that awful way. Like he was a disappointment.
The sword slid free with far less effort than Riddle was anticipating, meaning he went sprawling backward onto the floor, the Sword falling to the floor beside him. Riddle's eyes couldn't be torn from the way the mirror began to ripple, and how the reflection bent and kaleidoscoped outward from the spot the sword had been pierced through.
"We need to move," the second voice came from beside Riddle now, where the sword had dropped. Riddle barely had time to register that there was a person beside him now before he was yanked away from the foot of the mirror.
That god-awful vibrating that had first caught Riddle's returned tenfold as the mirror's surface swirled and rippled with wondrous, unknown colors that burned into Riddle's retinas. Those piercing golden eyes were attached to something now, a humanoid figure bursting through the liquid surface of the mirror.
Mother will kill me. Why did I do this? Mother will—will— Riddle couldn't process anything he was seeing. So many colors. Magic beyond comprehension. All of that, and the only thing he could think of was how Mother would punish him for this.
"Child." The Jabberwock's voice was substantial now, not reverberating from inside the mirror, but right in front of him.
Riddle flinched as a clawed hand cupped his cheek, eyes finally focusing on the creature in front of him. A handsome young man, who reminded Riddle a lot of the lords that Mother sometimes had as patients. Soft, pale skin that had never seen a day's of hard work, knee-length hair the shade of raspberry pink, and those striking eyes. Though, Riddle had never seen a lord whose hair looked quite like that—frizzy and unmanaged.
Then Riddle's eyes found the wrought iron horns. And the matching tail. And the wings. Glorious, draconic wings made of pink and gold stained glass.
Riddle started feeling lightheaded out of sheer confusion and fear, head lolling a bit. Mother is going to kill me. Mother is going to kill me. Mother—
"Child, child, please." The Jabberwock winced as Riddle's head snapped straight to look at him as instructed. "You truly believe your mother would kill you?"
Riddle shuddered when he realized he had spoken aloud. "I—she—I have to go back to my room. She can't know I let you out. She's going to—to—" Riddle sucked in a breath, but it felt nonexistent, like the oxygen in the air was gone.
"Father." The second boy—Philip, Riddle had to remember, The Jabberwock called him Philip—came to the Jabberwock's side.
The boy had wheat blonde hair and a slight frame, almost like a version of Riddle himself. Riddle couldn't help but compare himself and Philip to The Jabberwock. Both he and Philip seemed scrawny in comparison to The Jabberwock. Maybe that's just how kids were—after all, Philip seemed to be around Riddle's age.
Philip place his hand tentatively on The Jabberwock's upper arm. "Father, please."
The Jabberwock stilled, golden eyes flicking over to Philip and softening, the slit pupils rounding affectionately. "You're out." The Jabberwock snatched the boy up and clutched him tightly to his chest. "You're out with me. I was so worried that you would..."
The Jabberwock fell silent, eyes once again going to Riddle. Riddle hated how exposed he felt under The Jabberwock's gaze, as if The Jabberwock could read his very mind. The Jabberwock's pupils were still dilated too, as if he had just laid eyes upon a very shiny, desirable treasure.
"Your name?" The Jabberwock's head tilted inquisitively, reluctantly releasing Philip from his arms as the blonde boy squirmed.
"What?" Riddle squeaked, flinching as The Jabberwock rose to his feet, stained-glass wings flaring in a wide, cat-like stretch.
The Jabberwock raised a brow. "Your name, child."
"Riddle," he replied quickly, scrambling to his feet with the air of a nervous rabbit. "Riddle Rosehearts."
Riddle was about to ask The Jabberwock for his name in turn, when the office door slammed open. It felt like a bucket of freezing water had been poured over Riddle's head as all of the blood in his body seemingly abandoned him. He knew who was there. He knew who was standing in the threshold, shaking with fury as she examined the whole scene.
"Riddle. Why are you out of bed?!" Mother stormed up to him and gripped him by the collar of his nightshirt. "And more importantly, what have you done!?"
"Mother—" Riddle could barely whimper the word out, trembling at the incensed look on Mother's face. He had never seen her this mad. Her grip was white-knuckled on his collar, and her face was bright red.
Crack.
Riddle cried out in pain, cheek stinging from the force of Mother's hit. Tears welled in his eyes. Of course Mother was mad, of course, of course, I'm so dumb, I—
Just as swiftly, The Jabberwock snatched Riddle away from Mother, and backhanded her so hard that she flew backward and into a bookshelf with a crack. Riddle gasped, trying to wriggle out of The Jabberwock's grasp to go to his mother's side, to check on her, to see if she was okay.
She wasn't moving, why wasn't she moving?
Mother sucked in a weak breath after a long moment, eyelids fluttering as her furious steel-grey eyes fixed to The Jabberwock. "You infernal beast. You lying, conniving drake! Put the boy down!"
"Hm... no." The Jabberwock replied coyly, choosing instead to pull Riddle closer and cover both him and Philip with those terrifying wings. "What was it you called him? A devil child? Well, if he's a devil, then I think he should be raised by his own kind, no?" The Jabberwock's tail flicked back and forth gleefully, slit pupils contracting with something akin to malicious glee.
Mother scowled as she sat up, hand pressed to her chest as she tried to catch her breath. She stayed quiet, eyes flicking between Riddle and The Jabberwock as if weighing her options.
Weighing her options?
Riddle couldn't look at Mother anymore, his eyes finding Philip's instead. Philip had interesting eyes. Opalescent... or was the term iridescent? Shimmery, multicolored, did Philip even have pupils? Philip, of course, noticed Riddle's staring and gave him a weak smile.
"Fix me." Mother's voice was hoarse from the blow she received. "Fix me and take him."
More of that awful cold-water feeling, burrowing beneath Riddle's skin from head to toe. "Mother?" Riddle's voice barely came out, a pitiful whimper. "Mother, you—"
"Shut up!" Mother snarled, staggering to her feet. "Jabberwock. Fix me, and you can have the boy."
The Jabberwock's head tilted. "I can fix you, of course, but let me say," his voice was malicious, somewhat sadistic in a way, "I think your husband left because of your god-awful personality."
Mother sneered at The Jabberwock. "I care not for your opinion, beast. Do we have a deal?"
"Yes, yes, whatever, you irritating twat." The Jabberwock rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist with all the air of a bored aristocrat.
Mother immediately doubled over, clutching her stomach as her eyes widened in pain. "You—ow—"
"Organs being fixed is going to hurt." The Jabberwock shrugged, picking both Philip and Riddle with an arm each and flexing his wings again. "I could, of course, stop the pain, but that's not quite what our deal was."
Riddle wanted to reach out to Mother, to beg her to let him stay, to— to feel anything at the idea of never seeing Riddle again. The tears rolled down his face and—though it made him feel like even more of a disappointment, even more of a failure—Riddle couldn't stop them.
"Riddle, child." The Jabberwock's gentle tone returned as he strode out of the office. The empty hallway felt less foreboding with The Jabberwock's presence. "Is there anything you want to take with you? From your room, perhaps?"
Riddle didn't answer. Couldn't. Mother traded me away like coin. I—I thought Mother—I thought I just wasn't—
Philip gently prodded Riddle's cheek, to no reaction. "Oh... Father, perhaps we should just leave. Before that awful woman gets up and decides to demand more."
The Jabberwock huffed, his tail lashing irritably. "I suppose you're right. Though, where to nest..." he hummed under his breath. "Reclaiming Ars Bellum wouldn't be good, too turbulent for hatchlings..."
Eh? Hatchlings? Riddle heard the word vaguely, and began squirming around. Not that the squirming helped any—The Jabberwock was quite strong.
"Mm, the mountains. I want somewhere nice and remote." The Jabberwock decided, and headed toward the front door. "You keep an eye on the new hatchling, Philip. I'll find us a nice new nest."
"Wha—Father, are you going to carry us and fly?" Philip screeched, latching onto The Jabberwock with a renewed strength.
"Uh... yes? I can't exactly teleport to a place I don't know yet." The Jabberwock seemed befuddled that Philip would even ask. "I figure we fly around until we find a good place to nest. Makes sense, no?"
Philip shook his head vigorously. "No, no, no! There's no way that's safe!"
"Of course it's safe." The Jabberwock insisted, patting Philip's head with the fan-like tip of his tail. "I won't drop you."
"Father!"